The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 26

Low bent the Wizard, till his plume O'ershadowed her like falling doom: She feels the cold casque touch her ear, She hears the whisper, hollow, clear,-- "From Acre's strand, from Holy Land, O'er mountain crag, through desert sand, By land, by sea, I come for thee.

And mine ere sunset shalt thou be!

Dost know me, girl?"

The visor raises-- G.o.d, 'tis the Knight of Pilate's Peak!

As if in wildered dream she gazes, Gazing as one who strives to shriek.

She cannot fly, or speak, or stir, For that face of horror glares, at her Like a phantom fresh from h.e.l.l.

She gave no answer, she made no moan; Mute as a statue overthrown.

Her fair face cold as carved stone, Swooning the maiden fell.

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The sun has climbed the golden hills And danceth down with the mountain rills.

Over the meadow the swift beams run Lifting the flowers, one by one, Sipping their chalices dry as they pa.s.s, And kissing the beads from the bending gra.s.s.

The Dauphin's chateau, grand and grey, Glows merrily in the risen day; His castle that seemeth ancient as earth, Lights up like an old man in his mirth.

Through the forest old, the sunbeams bold Their glittering revel keep, Till, in arrowy gold, on the chequered wold In glancing lines they sleep.

And one sweet beam hath found its way To the violet bank where the Ladye lay.

O radiant touch! perchance so shone The hand that woke the widow's son.

She sighs, she stirs; the death-swoon breaks; Life slowly fires those pallid lips; And feebly, painfully, she wakes, Struggling through that dark eclipse.

Breathing fresh of Alpine snows, Breathing sweets of summer rose.

Murmuring songs of soft repose, The south wind on her bosom blows: But she heeds it not, she hears it not; Fast she sits with steady stare.

The dew-drops heavy on her hair, Her fingers clasped in dumb despair, Frozen to the spot: While o'er her fierce and fixed as fate, The fiend on his spectral war-horse sate.

A horrible smile through the visor broke, And, quoth he, "I but watched till my Ladye woke.

Get thee a flagon of Shiraz wine, For the lips must be red that answer mine!"

Cleaving the woods, like the wind he went.

His face o'er his shoulder backward bent, Crying thrice--"We shall meet at the Tournament!"

Clasping the cypress overhead, Christine rose from her fragrant bed.

And a prayer to Mother Mary sped.

Hold not those gleaming skies for her The same unfailing Comforter?

And those two white winged cherubim, She once had seen, when Christmas hymn Chimed with the midnight ma.s.s, Scattering light through the chapel dim, Alive in me stained gla.s.s--

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What fiend could harm a hair of her.

While those arching-wings took care of her?

And our Ladye, Maid divine, Mother round whose marble shrine She wreathed the rose of Palestine So many sinless years, Will not heaven's maiden-mother Queen Regard her daughter's tears!

Yes!--through the forest stepping slow, Tranquil mistress of her woe, Goeth the calm Christine; And but for yonder spot of snow Upon each temple, none may know How stem a storm hath been.

For never dawned a brighter day, And the Ladye smileth on her way, Greeting the blue-eyed morn at play With earth in her spangled green.

A single cloud Stole like a shroud Forth from the fading mists that hid The crest of each Alpine pyramid; Unmovingly it lingers over The mountain castle of her lover; While over Pilate's Peak Hangs the grey pall of the sullen smoke, Leaps the lithe flame of the ancient oak And the eagle soars with a shriek.

Full well she knew the curse was near.

But that heart of hers had done with fear.

By St. Antoine, not steadier stands Mont Blanc's white head in winter's whirl Than that calm, fearless, smiling girl With her bare brow upturned and firmly folded hands.

Back to her bower so fair Christine her way, is wending; Over the dark Isere Silently she's bending, Thus communing with the stream.

As one who whispers in a dream: "Waters that at sunset ran Round the Mount of Miolan; Stream, that binds my love to me, Whisper where that lover be; Wavelets mine, what evil things Mingle with your murmurings; Tell me, ere ye glide away.

Wherefore doth the bridegroom stay?

Hath the fiend of Pilate's Peak Met him, stayed him, slain him--speak!

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Speak the worst a Bride may know, G.o.d hath armed my soul for woe; Touching heaven, the virgin snow Is firmer than the rock below.

Lies my love upon his bier, Answer, answer, dark Isere!

Hark, to the low voice of the river Singing '_Thy love is lost for ever!_'

Weep with all thy icy fountains, "Weep, ye cold, uncaring mountains, I have not a tea!

Stream, that parts my love from me, Bear this bridal rose with thee; Bear it to the happy hearted, Christine and all the flowers have parted!"

They are coming from the castle, A bevy of bright-eyed girls, Some with their long locks braided, Some with loose golden curls.

Merrily 'mid the meadows They win their wilful way; Winding through sun and shadow, Rivulets at play.

Brows with white rosebuds blowing, Necks with white pearl entwined.

Gowns whose white folds imprison Wafts of the wandering wind.

The boughs of the charmed woodland Sing to the vision sweet.

The daisies that crouch in the clover Nod to their twinkling feet.

They see Christine by the river, And, deeming the bridegroom near, They wave her a dewy rose-wreath Fresh plucked for her dark brown hair.

Hand in hand tripping to meet her, Birdlike they carol their joy.

Wedding soft Provencal numbers To a dulcet old strain of Savoy.

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THE GREETING.

Sister, standing at Love's golden gate.

Life's second door-- Fleet the maidentime is flying.

Friendship fast in love is dying, Bridal fate doth separate Friends evermore.

Pilgrim seeking with thy sandalled feet The land of bliss; Sire and sister tearless leaving, To thy beckoning palmer cleaving-- Truant sweet, once more repeat Our parting kiss.

Wanderer filling for enchanted isle Thy dimpling sail; Whither drifted, all uncaring.

So with faithful helmsman faring, Stay and smile with us, awhile, Before the gale.

Playmate, hark! for all that once was ours Soon rings the knell: Glade and thicket, glen and heather, Whisper sacredly together; Queen of ours, the very flowers Sigh forth farewell.

Christine looked up, and smiling stood Among the choral sisterhood: But some who sprang to greet her, stayed Tiptoe, with the speech unsaid; And, each the other, none knew why.

Questioned with quick, wondering eye.

One by one, their smiles have flown.

No lip is laughing but her own; And hers, the frozen smile that wears The glittering of unshed tears.

"Ye nave sung for me, I will sing for ye, My sisters fond and fair."

And she bent her head till the chaplet fell Adown in the deep Isere.

THE REPLY.

Bring me no rose-wreath now: But come when sunset's first tears fall.

When night-birds from the mountain call-- Then bind my brow,

Roses and lilies white-- But tarry till the glow-worms trail Their gold-work o'er the spangled veil Of falling night

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